Simple Things

As I get older, I realize that simplest things are the most difficult. They are also the most worthy of pursuing. Let me give you some examples.

Ho-San in Kyoto started my Sumi lessons with a simple exercise of holding the brush vertically, and drawing a single steady line from left-to-right - one breath, one stroke, one line. Then repeat this right-to-left, up-to-down, and down-to-up. Simple, huh? Yes. But also really difficult. The line had to be an unbroken vertical or horizontal, steady - not wavering, of uniform thickness and of same hue or darkness, throughout. To mind all these conditions, and to paint a simple line, one essentially required - no mind.

The practice of Dhrupad vocal requires a regular early morning practice of Kharaj - or singing a basic Sa, at the lower octave. This is about the most profound and spiritual part of my day - to sit in darkness facing a small oil lamp with my tanpura on my lap - plumbing the depths of swaras to the lowest rumble of a Kharaj - my stone Saraswati sits in that glow, pensively listening, even smiling . One deep breath in, and a Kharaj - sung on an out-breath. Again, simple? Not at all. The voice, emerging from the pit of your belly, should be stable - not wavering, prolonged over a long stretched out exhalation, at steady volume and also tuned to that perfect pitch of the tanpura. Minding all this - one becomes mindless - and just a droning sphere of sound waves.

And the final simple exercise - to sit in meditation. To sit - emptying into void - time, existence, all mind. Just sit - in attention. Simple? No, no..the most difficult. To just be - in this moment, this now. Sitting, watching, closed eyes - behind closed eyes - the chitta-akash or the mind-sky. Monkey-mind drags you away climbing this tree or that - jumping up and down or about. You realize this and return to attempt focus - by watching the waves of breath - in and out, in and out. But the act of watching makes the ocean-breath choppy, erratic. Coming from the belly, or chest, or throat? What is this incessant movement - this life - thoughts again wander. What's so difficult about sitting still and silent with closed eyes? Everything - just try it. I try it and sit with it - sometimes in laughter - that I can't manage even the simplest of things. But that's what makes them worthy of practising - the fact that they are so simple - and,  yet I can't do it at all. Even though I am improving, I am also increasingly farther all the time - from this distant goal of doing simple things - just right!

Symphony of Swallows

It was evening. The sun was low on the horizon, the sky tinged with gold and pink. Suddenly my eyes caught a movement in the skies. There were a few swallows swooping around, gliding, darting, playing. A few more joined them, and a few more, till they all painted the skies in silent symphony of a thousand choreographed songs - broad brush strokes of tiny dancing dots. I stood and danced to this chorus.

A Walk...

Today is a beautiful day. I was walking on campus with Atul, loudly singing 'Yugan Yugan Hum Yogi' - Kumar's voice resonating inside, and my voice a weak, slower echo in its wake. Suddenly I noticed a single leaf of a tiny date palm flutter at a high speed...there was no wind, no breeze, just a cool and bright blue day. In that stillness, a single leaf fluttered -wildly. I understood without comprehension, that sometimes, somewhere, something moves one wildly - and yet the world around, steeped in the same wonder, remains at repose, calm and un-moved. I understood the leaf, tipsy with resonance of a song inside - and yet, in the same world, people chattered on mobiles, rushed in cars, tended to the sharp whistles of a pressure cooker - and that this was all, as it should be, fine and perfect.

Rum, Rasam and Raaga

There was a phase in my youth that I recall where "rum and coca-cola" was a mood to swing to. Decades later, I discover the same pleasures with a different twist - ahem...maturity. This year has been particularly cold in Bangalore and a little while back I was introduced to all kinds of cocktails with indian twist...so now, I can imagine no greater pleasure than to be curled on my diwaan with a glass of rum n' pepper rasam all to the moods of some evening raaga - say Marwa?

Chitradurga Fort

Forts have always held fascination - more so as I grow older. I am less engrossed by tales of valor, heroism, less awe struck by the immensity of ambitious architecture, and more intrigued by the spaces that men carve out - to protect themeselves. Forts these days are metaphors of all kinds of parallel realities that we build within, but hesitate to conquer. I sang with Kumar Gandharv 'Shoonya Gadh Shahar...' (Desolate Fort, City..) as I wandered around the Chitradurga Fort yesterday. I did not read the usual historical description, listen to almost mythical stories, pause at the romance that only bygone days evoke; all forts abound in these. I was filled by the nothingness that it was reduced to - all that men fought to protect, or sought to overthrow. The breeze was stiff - the warm afternoon was filled with waving tall grass, leaves rustling to gusty roars, and a standing stiff, upright, with the excitement of being almost blown away. It was this constant 'blown away' that yesterday invoked most, as I wandered through the abandoned fort of Chitrdurga.

I Sleep and Wake with Kabir

I sleep and wake with Kabir - literally! I mean that I am singing Kabir, as I fall asleep, and I am singing Kabir as I slowly awaken - not knowing which came first the singing or the awakening. And so the days pass to words...

Piya Mera Jagata mein Kaise Soi...
(My love is awake, how do I sleep??)

It is true that I get drunken on the words of Kabir, am addicted to a Kabirean-fix, a search for that search - which itself is Kabir. And yet its so easy to forget...the lover that I seek, the path that I crave, the laughter at this world that I have found with Kabir - and I cry. I cry when I forget - become significant from insignificance - run, yell, scream, protest, to change this world. But, on recovery, remind myself that Kabir too forgot himself, frequently ,and wept, forgetting the silly play that this life is all about.

If all about me is Kabir and about Kabir is already me - then maybe I am IT..and it is with this IT, me , Kabir that I sleep and awake?

Today I just Played

Today I just played with a song in my head...

Is ghat antar baag-bageeche!

In your earthen pot-
the gardens, and the gardener,
finest jewels, and the jeweller,
seven seas, and million stars,
the silent song roars, fountains burst!

Kabir says, listen you seekers,
your guru is within you!

-Kabir


Today I played with colors and lines after ages of waiting, hours of free floating mindless mind with a tanpura droning behind and a palette of colours in front!

Today I just played - with me.

Singing to my Fish

For a few weeks now I have had a gloriously beautiful fighter fish in a bowl against my window. It is colored turquoise to indigo and rose to maroon, yes! all on a 2 inch body of furly fins, a vain face, a full pouty mouth. It used to sit in sullen stillness, as many very beautiful people do, aware and sufficient in their own beauty. I wanted it to love me a bit, acknowledge, and interact - and play with me - a little bit...

no amount of prodding it - yes, physically, swirling its pool, pressing my nose against the bowl and making goofy fishy faces perturbed this little beauty at all - it was supremely unaware of my existence and content in its own place - the ruling fish of the bowl.

I slowly gave up seeking attention - decided to do my own thing - there was life before it came into my life, and there would be life even if I am ignored.

I sing - sometimes do tediously long riyaz for my long suffering family....so I usually try to give the family members a break and practice music when all have left home. Recently I have noticed that my fish perks up when I sing, becomes energised, buoyant, almost vivacious - it flits from here and there, swoops and swirls, dives in extravagant display of prowess and soars upwards in vertical lifts. It does all this as I wander through my room, singing. It also has developed a keen sense of the raga and is particularly partial to Bhairav - exhibiting very fine taste. Coincidentally, this also happens to be a favorite raga of mine! My dull, comatose fish has finally come alive - or has periods when it comes alive - when I sing.

I was overjoyed. Suddenly I wondered - maybe this was its act of desperation, of escaping, of committing harakiri, of flipping out, ending its life !! just because I sing?????

Flamenco in Bangalore

The stage was back lit in turquoise green - the figure in front was wearing black, strong shadows, gleaming guitar...the first notes, gentle, caressing - reined back fire, lightning, passion. Soon the fingers were moving with blurry speed, amazing music transporting me to another world of wild spirits, boundless freedom, throaty full voices, exuberant lives - lives of wanderers, gypsies of Andalusia - swirling skirts, leaping gold fires, sounds of flamenco guitar and gypsy violin, clapping hands, and tapping feet - close, passionate, recklessly open..all this I conjured up even as the program started. And, as intensely anticipated, the guitar was accompanied by gypsy violin, percussion, voice (what a full bodied, throaty, resounding voice she had!) and beat of clapping hands - and finally "Farooqo". Slim, strong, curly long hair flowing down his shoulders, raven eyebrows, flashy eyes ,and that smile - a supremely confident, vain smile of the really young, really beautiful, and really, really able...his feet moved in vanishing fast beats, his body leapt in amazing grace, and his fair flew in wild wings as he mesmerised us - hand to his heart, another snapping in rhythm, feet stomping wildly, flamboyantly, in perfect accord with the music - the music that played in his head, in his body, mostly his feet - he pirouetted in disregard to balance, gravity, in complete abandon to what moved him inside and what set us, the audience completely wild, sharing, rejoicing - tonight in Bangalore.

Blue Megh

The clouds oppressed, lightening split the skies, thunder rolled, the damp earthy fragrance arose even as rain dropped in big globs on my upturned face.. blue surrounded everywhere, all blue, indescribable blue of ink, prussian, royal, navy merging into raven blacks...the regal Megh blue of Indian miniatures, of peacock dance, of crashing waves - as the alaap unfolding with excruciating expectancy of long drawn awaitings, no rhythms yet, no beat of a steady pour....and then, all longing removed, rain drum down to a pakhawaj beat, soon to a dizzying, torrential unbearable speed, the voice and the drum merge with colors, each challenging and challenged....I sat in an auditorium, exposed and drenched in rain cascading over me, streaming all around, elated, drunk on this evening's Dhrupad in Raag Megh.

A Gift

It is a matter of continued surprise, even disbelief, how so often events in my life conspire, stars align, Gods smile and universe presents me an unexpected gift, a manna from heavens, that changes the course of my life - instantaneously, irrevocably, completely.

I have been living through just such an internal revolution, rearrangement, refocus, over this last week. Shabnam Virmani is the angel, the messenger, the universal sign, who landed at my doorstep on the wings of poetry, riding winds of music, songs, priceless gems accumulated, tasted, sifted, sorted over large spaces, and over long years - distilled into a perfect gift, a nectar, available for all who care, dare to sip, transform. She gave us 'Kabir' - the saint poet of fifteenth century, through voices across gender, caste, religion, crossing boundaries, individual, social, national, following his voice, his words, his music into the internal realms of spirit, solitary and also universal.

I have been riding this wave, in wonder and awe, revelling in its joy, forgetful of myself and my place, my sorrows and my angst, my daily connections, bounded sense of chores, duties, responsibilities. I have been riding this wave with scattered snatches of poetry in my head, following an escaping lyric, reaching for a haunting song slipping from my lip. I ride this wave, on a free ride, leading god knows where, and to what purpose...do I seek? what do I seek? why do I ride? to where? Right now, it is just for the pure joy of it - a tasting of vintage freedom, a peek into infinity of self. The only thing to wonder, will I ever get off this ride? I don't know, I don't care to know - for now, I just sit back, relax, enjoy.

Megh Swirling Inside

Yesterday afternoon the drama started unexpectedly-after an uniform gray and dull morning, at the siesta hour, the skies suddenly darkened to a heavy blue-black; within minutes, thunder roared, lightening sliced, electrified, water gushed through a torn universe, pelting, pouring, flooding; silver streams curtained my view outside, watery world with watery sounds, gutters overflowing in waves of melted earth; I lay watching in stillness, melting; the unquiet outside, now stirring inside-a dancer, a dervish stood up and pirouetted within my ordinary exterior, in swirls of silver, white, happy in a secretive abandon within the dark blue of Megh- now inside.

Crossing Notes

Today,two notes
crossed each other-
he, dark and young
she, gray, a monk
his notes of strength,gaiety
hers of sombre propriety
his song of season's renewal
her's of quiet withdrawl
they, strangers-
gazes locked in
recognition,
a moment, a spark,
identification,
of kindred heart-
today, two notes
crossed each other.

Music of the Masai

Its been about a year since Kenya. Like most memories, what I now carry with me are blurred pictures, erased details, softer impressions. Red earth, vast grey tumbling skies, umbrella acacias dotting the plains, groups of mud homes circled with fences of twigs, branches; an occasional zebra, a lost wildbeest-birds of prey circling the skies, cities of weaver birds on a single scraggly tree, mud ponds-the color of thick milky tea, and walking these plains- the lonely, proud, ebony stick figures in crimson-the Masai.And then, all memories sharpen, zoom into clarity, of chiselled faces, long muscular bodies, leaning on their spears, or walking that easy gait with a stick thrown across their shoulders-fearless, coal eyes, open stares,daunting, intimidating, till a rolling guttural sound captures you- the hypnotic music of the Masai. Their song is more rythemic than melodic,a chorus deep, primeval, resonating to earth's heartbeat, drumming to cycles of birth and death-continual, everlasting. Bodies heave forward, backward, in a serpentine lines, filmed with sweat, metal black, wrapped in blood, connected to earth, while their sound rises high-with their spirit-breaking loose.

Dancing to a Female God

This happens every year. Not just to me, but to all Gujaratis in the country and around the world. Monsoons end and we all get itchy feet. We carry around beats of garba-raas in our heads and try not to clap, leap, swirl in middle of a mundane conversation-we then know, Goddess is sure to arrive.With subdued excitement we get out our mirrored costumes and "dandiyas".Families play garba music and mothers train children in the ways to welcome the goddess-with lots of music, lots of dance.

Then follow, Navratri, "Nine nights" of dancing in circles, circles of many hundreds, thousand, one inside another all the way to the goddess herself, sitting on her tiger, and watching us with an indulgent smile. Clap, swirl, forward, backward, non-tiringly to an ever quickening beat till only the most proficient and hardy remain to a heady crescendo while most watch on in admiration and awe. And then, the dancing begins again, all over again, the Raas this time- a partner dance again in circles-the celestial dance of Krishna with Gopis-the same dance to welcome the daughter goddess home to her earthly abode. Hands hurt, legs ache, bare feet blister with the constant pounding on the earthern floors-yet the heart laughs and people shout "let the dancing continue".